


things you said last night

by belatrix



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 08:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17546036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/pseuds/belatrix
Summary: He probably needs to say something reassuring, here. Tell Rick that no, he absolutely won’t fucking touch him if he saysstop, ‘cause that shit’s not what Negan does.Except he’s already touching him. And he’s been running low on reassurances ever since the world started breaking apart.





	things you said last night

**Author's Note:**

> ...was this written at 4am in the middle of my winter finals because I really didn't want to study for my winter finals and my feelings for these two idiots keep hitting me at the worst, _worst_ times? ...maybe.

 

 

 

It’s very possible that this isn’t working.

At all.

There was a game plan, as much as things like this require a game plan: get Rick tipsy, sway him past that little point where he could keep his sweet southern tongue guarded, so that he might, at the very least, _admit_ to the tension that’s been brewing between him and Negan, low and humming and electric. So that he might finally acknowledge it. Because Rick is fucking stubborn if he’s one thing, if he’s anything, and Negan couldn’t have that if they were ever going to do something about it, whatever the hell ‘it’ really was.

“Rick,” he says now, the name coming out scratchy, rough, “ _Rick_.”

There’s a nearly empty bottle of whisky between them, shimmering golden and reflecting under the tawdry lamplight, and Negan is drunk.

This isn’t what he’d set out to do. This really, _truly_ isn’t what he’d set out to do.

He sways a little forward, and Rick glares at him, unwavering. His eyes are very blue. He looks entirely composed, so very fucking sober, which is both insulting and vaguely, distantly impressive. Negan had invited himself into Rick’s quaint little suburban house with the ―admittedly, less than honorable― intention to mellow him with alcohol, but, as it turns out, Rick isn’t one to be mellowed. Which, well, is not all that unexpected, considering.

“Rick,” he says again, and it sits heavy on his tongue, hangs without much meaning in the air. He really wants to kiss Rick. “I really wanna kiss you.”

Rick blinks once, twice, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t draw back. He sits there on the couch with a rigid spine and his hands clenched into fists in his lap, and he seems downright immovable. Steady. He’s implacable. But Negan remembers him crying, shoved down on his knees in the mud ―even when he doesn’t quite want to think of that, he remembers. Rick, shaking, with a streak of dark red across his face. Rick, backing down, backing away, curling broken and miserable into himself.

“You’re drunk,” Rick says. He sounds so tired.

Negan laughs and it’s too loud in the cloying quiet of Rick’s house, echoing off the walls. His kids are… somewhere. Negan isn’t sure. And what does it say about him, he thinks for the space between two seconds, what does it mean that the first thing Rick did when he saw Negan stroll through his gates, was hide his children away in some other house so that Negan wouldn’t be close to them?

He shakes the thought away. Inches closer to Rick, puts a gloved hand on his knee.

“Fuck yeah, I’m drunk.” He leans down until his face is hovering over Rick’s, fingers itching and mouth dry. There’s a buzzing numbness inside his skull and a low throb in his cock and something like anger bubbling up his chest. “I’m also real fucking hard. Rick.”

And, Jesus fucking Christ, how many times has he said that name tonight? If he could think a bit more clearly, he’d be inwardly laughing at himself for acting like a poor lovesick teenager, all hearts for eyes and wayward hormones. But, wait, he just did that, so maybe he’s not too far gone. It’s a mildly comforting thought.

Rick takes a stuttering breath, but he’s still not pulling away. He allows the closeness, doesn’t startle when Negan’s hand moves, leather-clad fingers trailing Rick’s jeans until they reach higher, press down against his thigh.

Rick’s mouth opens like maybe he’ll say something terribly profound, but he closes it, inhales sharply again. His jaw is clenched. His stubble’s getting longer, harsher. Negan wants to feel it scratch against his skin.

It’s disorienting. Rick fucking disorients him.

“I wanna―” He sees Rick swallow, his throat moving, imagines biting down on that stripe of flesh until Rick cries out, head thrown back, body moving under Negan's, “I want to fuck you so bad, want to make you feel good, I wanna make you fucking scream, Rick.”

 _I want to tear you apart_.

Did he say all that out loud?

Rick’s gaze falls to Negan’s mouth, only for half a moment, but Negan notices. He sees it, and something clenches violently inside him, he thinks he can feel his head hammer to the tune of Rick’s heartbeat. God, he’s so pathetic when he _wants_. Someone should stop him, right the fuck now. Someone should drag him away. Someone truly should. He shifts further into Rick’s space, their legs brushing together.

“You ain’t telling me to stop,” he says, wants to take it back when Rick twists a little away, because of course, of fucking course, _that_ ’s what finally made Rick flinch. A sound that may or may not be a chuckle bursts from him, his fingers start tracing patterns on Rick’s thigh. “Fucking shit, Rick, tell me to stop.”

Something flashes across Rick’s face ―fear? No, there’s really none of that, not anymore. Anger. It hits Negan, then, sudden like a punch to the gut, an abrupt flash of clear, stinging self-preservation, that Rick could do it, now; he could lunge, throw himself at Negan and throttle him, hit him, kill him ―he’s too goddamn drunk to fight back.

He thinks he left some of his men outside, with guns. He hopes he did. He hopes they’ll actually come help if he ends up being attacked with murderous intent on this pretty, floral-patterned couch.

“And you’re gonna stop if I tell you to stop?” Rick says, and the sound of that low, angry drawl curls low in Negan’s stomach. “You ain’t just gonna take what you want?”

Rick’s glare is hard and burning and pinning Negan to this tight, breathless moment, makes him want to shove Rick on his knees and pull his head back by the hair and slap it off his face, makes him want to kiss Rick even more.

He probably needs to say something reassuring, here. Tell Rick that no, he absolutely won’t fucking touch him if he says _stop_ , ‘cause that shit’s not what Negan does.

Except he’s already touching him. And he’s been running low on reassurances ever since the world started breaking apart.

“Shit, Rick,” he breathes out. It comes out like a plea, or a confession. Which is seriously fucking ridiculous, so yeah, Negan’s going to pretend it never happened, his voice never did that, thank you very much.

He makes himself smile, lets his mouth curl into a sharp, crooked line with teeth, because that’s familiar, that’s good and smug and all around predatory, because if he doesn’t do it then this whole situation will be something else ―something _more_.

His head’s fucking numb.

“You still ain’t telling me to stop,” he says, lets his eyes drag across Rick’s mouth, his neck, the clavicles exposed where the first buttons of his shirt are popped open, makes it as languid and deliberate as he can. Because if he presses, if he _pushes_ , then maybe Rick will, too. Maybe he’ll push back. Tell Negan to fuck off, and then the universe will be restored to its proper balance, Negan will laugh and get up, swing Lucille over his shoulder with a flourish, walk away and pretend this was all a game.

He doesn’t have a word for what the hell this is anymore.

He waits, watching Rick watching him, because apparently he’s playing Guy Asking The Guy He Wants To Fuck To Tell Him To Stop. This is getting spectacularly ridiculous, spectacularly sad.

Rick’s eyes flutter closed and open again, brows drawing together. His thigh is warm under Negan’s hand, his face so close that when he lets out a shuddering breath, it fans over Negan’s mouth. “I―” he says, falters, and he’s looking at Negan’s mouth again.

Negan wonders if he knows he’s doing it. If Rick _wants_ , too. It does all sorts of messed up things to his insides, his brain, makes everything float fuzzy and unfocused. He loves seeing Rick’s face so unsure and wary, loves it when he’s scared, but the thing is ―the fucking thing is, he loves seeing Rick’s eyes fall to his lips, would love to see him light up with the same kind of desire that’s gripping Negan by the goddamn throat.

Jesus, not love. ‘Love’ isn’t the word he was going for.

He makes, silently, a vow to never fucking drink again. Or, at least, never try to get anyone else tipsy again.

His hand glides up higher, palm dragging slow and heavy across Rick’s thigh until it reaches the sharp curl of his hip. He hooks a thumb inside the waistband of Rick’s jeans, gives a small, circular stroke at the heated flesh underneath. Rick suppresses the shiver, but not well enough.

“Negan,” he says, and it sounds so _broken_ , so unlike the steady, implacable anger of before, that Negan almost reaches out to grab him by that gorgeous mess of curls, almost shoves him down on the couch and pins his arms down, climbs on top of him, strangles him, fucks him, _ruins_ him. Almost. “Stop. _Stop_.”

Negan realizes, half a beat too late, how hard Rick’s breathing, out of nowhere. How his own throat is all closed up. Rick’s eyes are wide and clear and unblinking, and suddenly there’s a hand, Rick’s putting a hand on Negan’s chest, fingers splaying close to his heart. He’s not pushing him away, but the hand’s still there, heavy, anchoring, searing through the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

Negan lets out a sound that could be anything, brain caught somewhere between Rick’s words and Rick’s skin.

“What,” he says, doesn’t quite know why he says it. There’s a moment when he thinks Rick might actually reach up to kiss him and a moment when he thinks they’ll end up killing each other on this goddamned couch and maybe those two are the exact same moment.

“Stop,” Rick says again, and now it’s firmer, so much louder, “I’m telling you to stop.”

_You ain’t just gonna take what you want?_

He concentrates on the sound of Rick’s breaths, the sharp silent intervals between inhales, something to focus on. He withdraws his hand, pulls himself away, and that's when Rick’s breaths become easier, less stuttered.

“Right,” he says, and he _won’t_ fucking apologize about this, about anything, because guilt is really not his forte, “right.”

Rick sighs, or maybe he doesn’t, it’s hard to tell. Negan’s ears are still ringing, and he almost knocks the bottle over as he very nearly staggers to his feet. Not that there’s much left to knock over. Rick’s rubbing a hand over his face, and he looks so damn _exhausted_ , and Negan can’t tear his eyes away.

He needs to leave.

It’s very possible that this isn’t working.

At all.

 

 

 


End file.
